Laughter and tears
by SaidbhinLuch
Summary: After the fall, Molly is unsure whether to laugh or cry. Sherlock Holmes always has a knack for knocking her off balance, but he's there and she matters. Always. Rating for violence and mentions of drug addiction.


**Well this is my first time out with a Sherlock fanfiction, hope you enjoy! Set post 'The Reichenbach Fall'.**

* * *

Molly stands awkwardly on the grass as she watches John Watson attempt to march away, but his worsening limp impedes his movement. For a brief moment he stops, she holds her breath, afraid that he might have seen her.

She can't face him, not yet.

It's too soon for her, and quite possibly for the both of them. She turns and knows, just _knows,_ that Sherlock is there.

He wasn't supposed to be, but she knew that he'd come.

She always knows with him.

'You're an idiot.' She mutters under her breath, and feels him stare at her in surprise.

'A self-aggrandising idiot.' She doesn't mean it, not really, but she needs to say something, even if it does come out rather 'Holmes-like'.

'So John implied on numerous occasions.' Though his voice was laced with some sadness, there was an underlying humour to it, that lifted her spirits slightly.

'Smart man.' She wants to laugh, lord save her she does, this moment just like all the other moments with this man after the fall, just makes her want to laugh. The sheer ridiculousness of the situation is driving her around the proverbial bend.

Here she hides at a funeral with the dead man in question.

Never has Molly Hooper felt the need to laugh so much as in this moment right now. Sherlock knows this, he sees this, and sometimes as she glances at his profile, she thinks that he might just feel the same.

But then again, she's never quite sure with Sherlock, something that always had her off kilter with him.

So instead, tears slip down her cheeks, raining unchecked.

After a while, could have minutes, could have been hours, she can't care about that, she steps over to the grave stone. She stares down at the plain slab of marble and frowns, looking over it and into the middle distance.

She looks over her shoulder to see Sherlock staring at the sky, eyes clouded and lost.

She gently places a hand on the stone, and breathes.

* * *

Every time that Sherlock comes whirling back into her life, her heart stops, just for a beat. He knows this, he sees this and she feels that he feels the same.

London is his home, teaming, pulsing with energy, with all the people he's ever cared about. The years, his work to bring down the spider web weighed down on him has her more worried about him then she's ever been.

Every time he reappears back in her life, he comes back more battered, more bruised, aged and ragged.

He sits on the couch, still and quiet, primed on a hair-trigger and his gaze on her is unclear and she stops. Her hands hover over the cheek she was stitching so carefully, his eyes snap back into focus.

'I'm not on anything Molly.' She sits back slightly and examines him, reaching for an ice pack and placing it over his ribs, folding his hand on it.

'You better not be. The last time was more than enough.' Sherlock nodded slowly, Molly was never sure if he remembered her dragging him off of the floor of his old place and cleaning him up. It was the clouded look in his eyes that echoed his past, and she was always on the watch for.

'You gave more than you ever should. More than I ever deserved.' His head drops and he sighs, Molly tilts his head back up and smiles softly.

'You needed someone, I couldn't _not_ help you. Everyone needs someone, you needed me until you and John found each other.'

At this she makes to continue patching him up, but he moves so quickly that she nearly falls backwards, in her surprise. He holds her hands fast and tight, steadying her and stopping her from falling.

'I've always needed you Molly Hooper. Don't forget that, forgive me for forgetting that.' At this she wants to cry, but she laughs and he knows why.

* * *

She jolts awake and immediately regrets it, as every nerve ending lights up in pain.

'Mol- _Molly._' A cough catches her attention and she moves her head slowly and is baffled to see Mycroft bound to a chair, before Sherlock moves into her line of sight.

'Are you alright?' He gently touches her cheek eyes scanning ever inch of her face, searching for something.

'Con- _confused_? Wh-what's going on?' Mycroft coughs and his head lolls backwards and Sherlock tosses him a look, at the right angle, it could be construed as concern. He tries to smile at her, but she sees the flash of worry, and her stomach knots.

'Moran?' She whispers and he straightens and turns his head, shielding as much of her as he could.

'Jim was a fool, when it came to you _Mister Sherlock Holmes._' Molly leans around Sherlock to see a blonde haired man saunter into the room, holding a gun casually.

So casually it was un-nerving.

'All he wanted was _you_. Even let this one-' He stalked around the room, pushing the gun against Mycroft's temple and twisting it. Sherlock bristled but remained close to Molly, and she steadied herself.

'Torture him, just to learn more about _you._' He moves like a hunter about to strike its prey, his empty blue eyes boring holes into him.

'Sebastian.' The eyes narrow and he stands behind Molly, placing his hands on her shoulders, making her shudder and want to gag.

'But this one...' Sherlock's eyes burn as his hands massage her shoulders, one hand moving steadily towards her neck.

'Surprised even me.' Molly stares up at Sherlock evenly, trying to tell him that she was okay, that she had faith.

Faith in him, unwavering, unshakable, she's always believed in him.

She always will believe in him, the man, Sherlock Holmes.

Even for all his faults, his lack of tact, his overall lack of manners, he was a good man. Though he did his absolute best to hide it.

High functioning sociopath, _my ass_ she thinks as Moran finally releases her neck and Sherlock continues to glare at Moran as he shifts away from her.

Mycroft twitches and he regains consciousness, his eyes moving across the room in a manner identical to his brother. Once again, she seems to be an unexpected factor in the equation that was the Consultant Detective's connections.

Sherlock moves, walking behind her, slow, careful, calculating, but decidedly odd. Even Mycroft seems incapable of deducing his motivations or plan. Suddenly, a slim cold object finds its way into her hand and she curls her fingers around it.

And she knows what he needs her to do.

She shifts her shoulders back, wincing in actual pain as a dagger of heat rips up her scapulae allowing her to manoeuvre the scalpel into the right position. She makes no move to use it to cut through the duct tape, waiting for a cue. This plan is hinged on Moran not knowing, not suspecting and her operating under the radar, her true skill.

'Moriarty clearly lacked the aptitude to see Molly Hooper for what she really is. So I have to agree with you Sebastian, he was a fool.' At this Sebastian Moran lunges for Sherlock's throat and Molly slices up through the tape as quick as she can manage. Both men struggle for dominance on the floor, and seem oblivious to her escape.

Until a pair of cat like eyes zoom in on her that tell her to run.

She wrenches her arms free and cuts open her leg bindings before darting over to Mycroft and freeing him.

'Go, get help.' She shoves him out of the room before turning back to see Moran squeezing the life out of Sherlock. So she does the only thing she can do, she flips the scalpel in her hand and jumps into the fray.

She feels her body slam back into the floor and her skull crack against the floor, lights exploding in her eyes.

Weak coughing catches her attention as well as an odd gurgling noise, as she recovers and tries to get back her bearings. A weight she hadn't noticed due to the adrenaline rush moves off her chest and she raises herself up slowly to see Sherlock sitting up and coughing, hovering over Moran.

Her eyes widen as she realises that the scalpel that she had clutched in her hand was now lodged in Moran's neck. Severing the right carotid, the blood gushing out of his neck and Molly struggles to help him. She is a Doctor after all she couldn't let this man die, no matter how evil, without trying to do something to help.

The shock at her actions clearly stuns Sherlock as he watches her try to staunch the flow of blood.

Their eyes connect for a moment before they both see the lights go out in Moran's eyes. Molly falls backwards and surprisingly connects with Sherlock's frame. As she lifts the back of her blood soaked hand to her forehead, Sherlock's arm winds its way around her waist.

'Thank you.'

And once again she'd caught between laughter and tears, and this time for sure, she knows, he knows why.

She matters, she always had, and she always will.


End file.
